The human condition forces us all to consider our ultimate demise. I have come to terms with the one guarantee in life; that we will all one day return to the place from whence we came. I believe that accepting this ultimate fate helps us to live in the present moment, to embrace our loved ones, and to appreciate what we have. It is so easy to get caught up with the past and to worry about the future, even though we have no control over either. While trying to keep up with the breakneck pace the society we have created has imposed on us, coming to terms with this truth is perhaps the most empowering tool we have.

I was traumatized by horror films as a child, yet somehow I developed a love of Halloween. Trick or treating for candy bars felt safe in my neighbourhood, and I continue to watch in awe as people’s imagination bubbles to the surface on this day. I managed to separate my fear of the supernatural and the gore that became associated with this peculiar ritual, to appreciate the creativity that my friends and neighbours put into their costumes and decorating their homes each year. It has always felt like a magical night to me, and every year I imagine the orange glow of jack-o-lanterns across North America from space.

It wasn’t until I met my lovely South American mother-in-law Soledad, who helped explain to me the beautiful tradition of making food on the Day of the Dead, and holding space for the dearly departed. Somehow this practice melded together with the ancient Wiccan and Pagan rituals of Samhain into the tradition we now call Halloween.

I still can’t take horror movies and I don’t care much for the concept of zombies. I felt as though I stood alone against the fashion trend that depicted skulls on t-shirts, hoodies and hats since the early 2000s. I had a suspicion that wearing signs of death would conjure a bad omen. With the exception of Halloween, when I somehow manage to quell my superstition, I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing images of morbidity. When I take a moment to explore this phenomenon further, it has become obvious to me that humankind has developed an obsession with death. It is as though we have gone beyond the fear of dying to embracing death as a titillating sideshow. Netflix is rife with films about serial killers and literally every other TV show involves sexual assault and bloody murder, in increasingly gory detail. While I don’t have the statistics to back it up, I am certain that there is a correlation between the glorification of death that we consume on our screens, of which we can’t seem to get enough, and the ever-increasing incidence of murder. Rampant, seemingly random, hate-driven, senseless mass shootings that used to shock gun toting America have now tainted our shores in Canada. It is no coincidence that the desensitization of our youth through murderous video games has normalized mass killings in our society. Life has become cheapened as we are bombarded with a constant barrage of violence, disproportionally against women, further promoting a misogynistic culture. We would do well to exercise better judgement in what programming our society funds. By not producing TV shows and movies containing insidious violence, perhaps we can bolster respect for women and re-sensitize today’s youth to the precious gift of life.

These are stressful times, to say the least. Modern civilization is witnessing unprecedented death around the world. In the early days of the pandemic we watched in terror as our brothers and sisters succumbed to pneumonia. Over time, a certain amount of acceptance has been required for our mental health, and with it death tolls increasingly become statistics.

Adorned with all the bells and whistles, the stereotypical sounds of Halloween, my song “The Graveyard” was initially inspired by my friend Jay O, who grew up in the crime-ridden capital of St. Lucia. The Wilton’s Yard district of Castries became known as “The Graveyard” due to its high mortality rate amongst the youth. The lyrics address many subject matters, including the persecution of herb dealers, the plight of ghetto living where education is a luxury, the brainwashing of our society by elitist regimes, and the universal challenge of conquering our respective egos. I attempted to temper the severity of the subject matter by adding a verse about a grave robber (itself a real thing) who tantalizes the Grim Reaper, in fanciful verse. The song has since taken on new meaning for me.

In light of the rising death toll around the globe, I considered leaving this track off my collection of singles. It is somewhat of an anomaly in my discography in that its roots are in reggae but it simultaneously employs a modern dance groove. It is not intended to make light of a serious situation. Though it is cloaked in poetic frivolity, “The Graveyard” certainly reminds us of our mortality. It is meant to be an affirmation of life.

As such, I have decided to donate the proceeds of the sales of my 25th Anniversary collection ‘The Singles’ to the COVID-19 emergency support effort in South Africa, where many thousands are on the brink of starvation. My trusted friend Catherine Robar works in Donor Relations and Fundraising at UNICEF in South Africa, where she heads the Themba Project, specializing in resource mobilization. All money raised will be spent directly on providing food to the community.

If you have not already purchased ‘The Singles’, this is a wonderful opportunity to support your fellow men, women and children who are struggling to find enough food to survive amidst the government lockdown in South Africa. For only $10 you will get a copy of my new compilation via secure direct download that may help to inspire hope over the coming months, while helping to save lives. Get your copy here: www.halfwaytree.ca/music

Throughout the 1970s most 7” 45 rpm singles manufactured in Jamaica included a B-side instrumental version of the A side, simply titled “VERSION”. This was in response the rapidly growing popularity of ‘toasters’ aka mic MCs, who would speak over the version side of a single, ‘toasting’ the crowd, calling the name of the sound system, bigging up the name of the selector and operator, and of course the other ‘spoken word’ artists in the house. The style became known as “Deejay”, different from the disc jockey (DJ), who was all important, but went by the title ‘selector’ for his part in ‘selecting’ the records alongside the ‘operator’, who would operate the turntable and mixer plus turn the knobs which would control various sound effects. Sometimes one disc jockey would assume both roles, and if no one else was around, perhaps they might “deejay” as well! Perfectly clear, right?!

The Godfather of the style was called Daddy U-Roy, followed closely by I-Roy, King Yellowman and Josey Wales, who went on to receive Jamaica’s prestigious “Order of Distinction” in 2017. This early musical form of lyrical rhyming would go on to inspire rap music throughout the 80s and beyond. Many successful deejays followed, including Brigadier Jerry, Charlie Chaplin, Lieutenant Stitchie, Tiger, and my all time favourite, Super Cat. The style continued to evolve through the 90s, creating commercial superstars like Shabba Ranks, Shaggy, Buju Banton and Beenie Man, plus the more militant Rasta revolutionaries like Capleton and Sizzla, who catered to a specific dance hall audience.

As traditional roots reggae transitioned to what became known as “dance hall” music in the late 80s, the music took on a simpler, synthesizer based sound. “Riddims” could now be created in a home studio, dispensing with the need for expensive studio time and live musicians. As recording gear became digital and more easily portable, one ‘producer’ could program a drum loop and then build the entire riddim on a single ‘controller’ or synthesizer. This facilitated the ease of recording and the subsequent explosion of ‘artists’ across an island on which nearly everyone fancied themselves a deejay. King Jammy and other producers such as Steely and Clevie became in high demand. Wordsmiths abounded and some rose to the top of the charts.

One such producer became known as Don Corleon. Don rented a studio space at Kingston Muzik Studio in Mona Heights where I was recording my sophomore album. He became hugely popular in Y2K and all the rising stars began showing up at the studio to ‘voice’ a track on one of Don’s original riddims. In the four months I lived in the studio complex I watched many deejays record right through the night, including Sean Paul and Elephant Man. Vybz Kartel would occasionally sleep on the bench outside my window. I would go on to back them all at Sting 2001, touted “The greatest one night reggae and dance hall show on earth”!

Throughout my seminal years, finding my way as a musician and singer in the metropolis of Toronto, I immersed myself in Jamaican culture, attending concerts and dances and every after hours ‘speakeasy’ opportunity I could find. There was hardly a day that one couldn’t find some sort of Jamaican entertainment to dance to. Of note were The Ackee Tree, Muhtadi’s and The House of David. Weekend house parties featured mouthwatering homemade curried goat with Jamaican rice 'n' peas with a side of coleslaw.

Towards the end of the 80s, dance hall became the sound of a new generation. Toronto produced numerous notable deejays including Stevie Banton, General Fitness, Friendlyman and DJ Caddy Cad aka Cadillac, featured here.

We have all gone through tough times. We have lost jobs, loved ones and relationships, and within that context we each have our own unique set of circumstances that we have to grapple with. It is all relative. “The Winter Of My Discontent” was born out of a particularly difficult year for me, navigating unemployment and an uncertain future. The lyrics seem to be more relevant now than ever before...

As a young teenager growing up in Toronto in the early 80s one couldn’t help but be lured by the infectious music that became known as “two-tone ska”. UK band The Specials embodied the multi-racial sound and look for which the style was named. This was Great Britain’s response to the massive impact that Jamaican music had on its youth culture.

Beginning in the 1950s, a wave of Jamaicans immigrated to the UK to fill the fledgling labour market. As Jamaican migrant communities grew so too did the music scene. By the mid 1960s, the music from the Caribbean island had infiltrated London’s pop culture. In 1964 Millie Small’s “My Boy Lollipop” would reach number two on the UK charts. Cultural lines blurred as black music began to inform British culture, and second generation British Jamaicans began to find common ground with their working class neighbours. With the evolution from ska through rocksteady to reggae music would come a multicultural revolution against racism in the British Isles. Bands such as The Specials and The Selecter busted onto the scene in the late 70s, whose black and white members resembled the modern society from which they were created. “The English Beat” by their very name would embody the movement sweeping the nation, followed closely by Madness and Bad Manners, right on through to the advent of international superstars UB40.

The so-called “British Invasion” described the massive influence that bands such as the Beatles and the Stones had on the North American musical landscape throughout the 1960s and beyond. While the tide of rock ‘n’ roll was surging back across the Atlantic, the music of Jamaica was changing the sound of Britain itself. Bob Marley recorded his triumphant Exodus album in London in 1977 and The Clash were covering Jamaican hits such as Junior Murvin’s “Police and Thieves” and Willi Williams' "Armagideon Time". By the time Marley died from cancer in 1981, reggae had permeated popular music. From Clapton’s version of “I Shot The Sherriff” to 10CC’s “Dreadlock Holiday” to Culture Club’s “Do You Really Want To Hurt Me”, reggae’s infectious groove was here to stay.

Back in Canada, Toronto’s Jamaican population had surged to almost a quarter million, and where there are Jamaicans there is reggae music. The Ishan People were one of the first reggae bands in Canada, a conglomerate of Jamaican migrant musicians, including renowned singer Johnny Osbourne. Numerous Jamaican Studio One alumni made Toronto their home, including The Heptones’ Leroy Sibbles, his mentor Brian “Bassie” Atkinson, and keyboard legend Jackie Mittoo.

I was fifteen when someone alerted me to a concert being held at Toronto’s Palais Royale in 1983. Rastafarians of Guyanese and Trinidadian decent had formed a band called Truths and Rights, which had a significant impact on Toronto’s reggae burgeoning reggae scene. I was hypnotized by their repertoire, including the memorable anthem “Time For Us To Unite”, from their powerful song "Black Plight". I returned to the venue shortly thereafter to take in their Jamaican counterpart The 20th Century Rebels, whose song “Running From The FBI” made a similar lasting impression on me. The Rebels’ drummer “Raffa”, who became widely known as the best reggae drummer in Canada, would become my mentor and champion.

As a youth growing up in Jamaica in the early 70s, Tony “Raffa Dean” White spent significant hours studying reggae powerhouse The Fabulous Five band, paying particular attention to drummer, vocalist and bandleader Asley “Grub” Cooper. Raffa moved to Toronto in 1975 and quickly became the backbone of the Toronto reggae scene, backing virtually every reggae superstar that passed through the city.

Toronto’s legendary Bamboo Club opened their doors in 1983, hosting the who’s who of reggae music in Canada. Legendary Jamaican artists including Leroy Sibbles, Frankie Paul and The Mighty Diamonds played there on several occasions, and a gig at the club became a coveted spot for aspiring Torontonian reggae acts. Canada’s most successful reggae groups, Messenjah and The Sattalites played there, as well as a host of young bands which included Sunforce, Revelation, Fujahtive, Culture Shock, Leejahn, Bongcongonistas (one of several groups that Raffa played with), and my first successful reggae group, Rockstone.

I had somehow been managing admission to the Bamboo since the age of 15. Even though I was four years away from legal entry, my face became familiar to the staff, so I was rarely questioned. I became a fixture at the ‘Boo, dancing amongst the throngs of patrons from every culture and walk of life. I had developed a penchant for reggae percussion and eventually I began to accumulate a collection of shakers and knockers I would tote around with me. It was a Mecca for reggae fans and bands alike, and as my musical ability began to catch up with my profound love of the genre, Raffa started encouraging me to sit in and play by his side. I was under ‘heavy manners’ and as such there was no room to stray from his timing. In turn it taught me discipline, and Raffa taught me groove. When he felt I was ready, we backed up iconic Jamaican singer Gregory Isaacs together.

I played for a spell with legendary Jamaican guitarist Ronnie “Bop” Williams, who invited me to come and hear him play with one of the heaviest reggae bands to emerge from the city’s Rastafarian community called Awanjah. The charismatic front man was named Prince, backed by Carlton Dinnall on bass. I caught one of their mesmerizing shows at PWD’s in Toronto’s historic Yorkville neighbourhood. The band played with such spiritual depth that I felt compelled to approach the bass player about working together. This bold move culminated in a brazen young band we named “Rockstone”. Following a recent falling out with the bass player from a Jamaican group I had been working with called Solid Foundation, I recruited the band’s drummer Mikey Flemmings and guitarist Derrick “Jah D” Lambert to join Rockstone. A fellow musician from Toronto’s Malton subdivision, Jah D had been an original member alongside Carlton in Awanjah. We coined the phrase “Four Tuff” as Rockstone earned a reputation for sounding like a full reggae band with only four players. When Mikey became unavailable to perform a string of gigs we called upon Raffa, who embraced the band as one of his favourites. The group played countless gigs in and around Toronto, culminating on a float in the annual Caribana parade in 1991.

Rockstone played an equal number of original songs and cover tunes. “Always On My Mind” was written by my friend and co-conspirator Carlton Dinnall in the early 90s, a song that I always believed deserved a good recording. This version is hereby livicated to our friends and band mates Jah D, who suffered a massive asthma attack in 2008, and Raffa Dean, who was consumed by cancer in 2014. I will be forever grateful for your lovingkindness and you will forever be always on my mind.

With all of its similarities to reggae, I have never been particularly drawn to country music. For some reason however, my infatuation with a beautiful young art student at the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design inspired this little ditty. I had recently moved from Toronto to Halifax. She had eyes like a doe and I was smitten. I would stop by to visit her at her work place. I made her a mixed tape even though nobody had a tape deck anymore. But I just couldn’t figure out if she liked me in return. After she turned down my invitation to go on a dinner date I realized that I had to get over it. All my pining wasn’t worth it. It just wasn’t meant to be. Sigh.

Featuring reggae greats Chris Meredith on bass and Squidly Cole on drums, Jah D on organ, and Tomaz Jardim on guitar, “Get Over You” features a classic country boy acoustic guitar solo by my long time friend and band mate Tyson Spinney. Another lifetime friend, country crooner Doug Paisley offers his sweet backing vocals alongside his longtime sidekick Chuck Erlichman. My former classmate from audio engineering school Adam Balduc graces the track with his virtuosic mouth organ skills, plus if you listen closely you can hear the understated addition of Jono Grant on the “Jah harp” aka jaw harp, mouth harp, gewgaw, guimbard, khomus, Ozark harp, Jew's harp, Galician harp or murchunga, otherwise known as a “trump”! Ew.

Immediately following my Mom’s funeral I went to visit my Dad in Fredericton. Saddened by the passing of his former wife, he tried but failed to comfort me. My Mom had been my closest person. Living alone together for over a dozen years, we had seen each other through a lot. My Dad had a good heart but he struggled with bipolar disorder all my life. He didn’t know what to say and ended up putting his foot in his mouth. What could he have said, anyway?

On a happier note, the evening I spent in Fredericton found me at The Capital Pub, which featured nightly live entertainment. Though I hadn’t heard of them at the time, the pub was featuring the Aaron MacDonald Band from Mabou, Cape Breton. I recognized the drummer from the sound engineering school that we had both attended back in Ontario. Neil MacQuarrie had followed in his father’s shoes and become an affable young drummer. He invited me to come and meet the band, and in short order I was invited to sit in with my extra percussion. I have always tried to keep my percussion bag of tricks close at hand, for just such an emergency!

We got along famously and the band gave me a standing invitation to join in anytime we crossed paths. Shortly thereafter I settled in Halifax, where the Aaron MacDonald Band performed regularly. I became both a fan and a regular stand in. Aaron is still a clever songwriter and continues to perform his repertoire at venues around Cape Breton. But of the many catchy ditties that Aaron has penned over the years, his biggest crowd pleaser was always “Happy Day”. One couldn’t help but dance and sing along to the chorus, declaring: “I’m going back to where I left my friends”. It became the most requested song by audiences everywhere they played. Sometimes he’d have to play it twice in a night!

From the perspective of the veritable tambourine player in the group, I always heard this song as a great reggae jam. Hopefully you’ll agree! Years later, when I sought his permission to record the song, Aaron explained that the lyrics were inspired by a mushroom trip. Albeit, the song remains a Maritime anthem, filled with wisdom: “If we’ve got life then it’s life to live and it doesn’t really matter ‘cause we get what we give. And when it’s gone it comes around again…”

This song opens with a familiar expression in Jamaican patios, roughly translated: “What the @#$% is going on?” These were words uttered on a regular basis by the Jamaican studio owner who signed me with his independent label at Kingston Muzik.

Following the successful recording of my debut album What If I Told You in 1996, Kingston Muzik shopped the album at the Midem music conference in France in 1998. Independent reggae distributor Tabou 1 licensed the rights to sell the album in Europe and it received significant airplay on radio in France and in the Netherlands. There were giant posters promoting my first full-length album in the Paris subway and the record company had secured me a prime spot on the premiere reggae festival in Jamaica, Reggae Sunsplash. I was on my way!

I had the great fortune of recording the album with several members of The Wailers band including “Seeco” Patterson, “Chinna” Smith and Aston Barrett, plus a surprise guest appearance by Tyrone Downie on piano. What If I Told You went on to be nominated in the “Best Reggae Album” category at the 2000 Juno Awards back in Canada.

I continued writing, rehearsing and performing with my awesome reggae group Halfway Tree in Toronto. By this time the group had a reputation on the local club scene for bringing hearticle reggae to an expanding circle of fans.

I was however stopped in my tracks when my Mom called me with a cancer diagnosis in early 2000. I dropped everything and departed for Nova Scotia to be by her side. The prognosis was not good so I returned to Toronto and packed up my things and moved to Halifax to spend the rest of her days with her. Only, she died before I made it back. I attended the funeral in my hometown of Sackville, New Brunswick and then landed back in Halifax. I had let the momentum with my band slide and went into a period of mourning. After working at The Economy Shoe Shop food and beverage emporium for a couple of months I moved out to the family cottage with my keyboards and my dog, where I finished composing a collection of new material.

I called up the studio owner at Kingston Muzik, explaining that I was ready to record another album. Encouraging me to come, I called up Family Man to see if he would be willing to record another album together. We arranged to meet in Kingston immediately following the Wailers’ tour at the end of September.

Flanked by my close friends, guitarists Tyson Spinney and Tomaz “Moose” Jardim, I arrived at Kingston Muzik two weeks’ after September 11th, 2001. However, Family Man was nowhere to be found. We learned that the Wailers’ tour had been extended in Europe so I called up Chinna Smith, who connected me with hard working session bass player Christopher Meredith and his colleague, drummer “Squidly” Cole. This was the bass and drum team that was working with Ziggy Marley at the time. Needless to say, they threw it down in the studio, and within three days we had finished bed tracks for a full-length album. My friends and I busted it to the airport and flew back to Canada.

I spent the following months recording overdubs: horns and piano, clavinet, African guitar, sitar, clarinet, etc., before returning to Kingston to mix. I was stoked!

Shortly after my arrival, Chris and Squidly stopped by the studio for a visit. We had a quick listen to some of the tracks we had recorded together before they bid me a good night. The next day I went into the studio to resume work only to find that the audio tapes had mysteriously disappeared. In a classic Jamaican “bandulu” move, the rhythm section had “tiefed” the tapes, to hold to as ransom. I quickly learned that the studio owner/executive producer had not yet paid them for their session work. Much to my chagrin, the president of the Jamaican Musicians’ Union had to step in to set things straight with the studio and arrange that the musicians be paid their due before I could reclaim the tapes and continue work on the album. The musicians were paid and the tapes were safely returned.

Weeks went by as equipment failed and progress was stalled, as is typical of the Caribbean, so I grew frustrated and packed up to leave. Upon my arrival in Montego Bay after a day’s journey by bus, my heart sank to discover that the audio tapes I had safely packed in my bags contained only empty shells. Stolen for a second time, I could only presume that the executive producer was protecting his investment by withholding the tapes.

I spent several months in Canada restoring my faith in humanity before returning to Kingston Muzik to recover a “back up” set of tapes. I returned to Nova Scotia and although there were bits and pieces of what I had recorded missing, I managed to secure all the bed tracks. I booked out a great studio in Halifax called Common Ground and went to work. I had to hire a horn section to redo the parts, since the only surviving horn part was the sweet trombone solo by William Carn that opens the song (to follow). With the help of accomplished studio engineer Chris Mitchell, I managed to pull the album together. The Only Constant was seven years in the making.

The album received critical acclaim upon its release in 2008 and the song “Ease Off The Pressure” sat at number one on CBC’s Galaxie reggae channel for four months. Even though the song was written before it was recorded, the lyrics certainly are apropos.

Reggae music crept into the streets of Kingston in the mid-1960s as the voice of the oppressed; Jamaica’s underprivileged in a society in civil unrest. The island struggled with poverty but the former British colony had bred an industrious and resilient people who managed to hustle for their daily bread. A wide variety of fruits grew abundantly on trees throughout the island, including the native “ackee”, which would be gathered and sold at local markets, and fishermen’s nets were abundantly full of red snapper and other treasures from the sea. This was a nation of great faith in God, boasting more churches per capita than anywhere else on Earth. And where there were churches there was music, singing praises to His name.

The happy-go-lucky “ska” music of the early 1960s depicted easier times, when Jamaican musicians were imitating the rock and roll sounds of Fats Domino and the like, which could be heard over radio waves from the United States. These were love songs with a danceable shuffle, and in response local dances became hugely popular. The premier band of the 1960s was called the Skatalites, employed by Clement Dodd as the house band at the Jamaica Recording Studio. He would become known as Sir Coxone aka “Downbeat”, and the studio was dubbed “Studio One”.

The transition to reggae music happened through what would become known as “rocksteady”, a slower version of the same beat, featuring a hypnotic, walking electric bass line, in place of the traditional stand up. Around 1965 the Skatalites were replaced by a young set of musicians that would go by several names as they created their formidable canon, including Soul Brothers aka Soul Vendors aka Brentford All-Stars aka Jamaica All-Stars. This new Studio One collective was led by young trumpeter Bobby Ellis and a keyboard prodigy named Jackie Mittoo, who would go on to shape the sound of reggae music to come. This was the hay day of rocksteady, primarily still love songs to swoon and croon to, still danceable enough to woo a date at the local club.

Dozens of singers and aspiring young singing groups adorned the rhythm tracks created by the Studio One band, and several other studios and respective house bands began popping up around Kingston town, including Duke Reid Studio and Channel One. These studios began pumping out hit after hit. Sometimes a 7” single was mixed and pressed on vinyl the same day, and then quickly couriered to “sound systems” throughout the city by bicycle. Sound systems were literally a collection of homemade speaker boxes, piled one atop the other for maximum bass, volume and velocity. Ample amplification and maximum wattage was of paramount importance as competing sound systems increasingly played a major cultural role in spreading new music throughout the land.

Meanwhile, a growing alternative religion was gaining popularity in Jamaica. Prominent black rights activist and president of the UNIA, Jamaican born Marcus Garvey, had purportedly suggested that his followers “look to Africa, when a black king shall be crowned, for the day of deliverance is at hand”. Many agreed that this was Haile Selassie, crowned Emperor of Ethiopia in 1930 under the name Ras Tafari, whose Biblical lineage could be traced back to King Solomon and Queen of Sheba. When Selassie visited Jamaica in 1966, his plane was met by hundreds of spectators, including dozens of natty, dreadlocked “Rastafarians”, proclaiming his divinity, citing Revelation 5:5 “See, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David,” and 17:14 “…for he is the Lord of lords, and King of kings”.

The Wailing Wailers trio (Bob Marley, Peter Tosh and Bunny Wailer) was one of the singing groups backed by the Skatallites and then by the Soul Brothers at Studio One in the early sixties. As they gained notoriety with hits such as “Simmer Down” and “One Love”, The Wailers became devout Rastafarians, spreading the message of “One God. One Aim. One Destiny.” Under the persuasion of executive producer Chris Blackwell, who had invested in The Wailers’ first full length album Burnin’, the three singers decided to pursue solo careers around 1974. Bob Marley shot to fame and became a champion of Rastafari, inspiring thousands of followers around the globe to embrace Rasta as their religion. Check out Marley’s “The Lion Of Judah”

As political unrest exploded in the capital’s streets, a vibrant spiritual revolution was sweeping Jamaica. Reggae music of the 1970s became the voice of the oppressed, demanding equal rights and justice, juxtaposed with the Rasta doctrine of pure, natural living in the spirit of peace and love and fraternity. In addition, cannabis sativa had been introduced to Jamaica in the 1950s, earning an international reputation for its ideal climate for growing exceptional herb. Embraced by Rastas as a religious sacrament, smoking ganja contributed a euphoric inspiration to the alchemy of roots reggae music. At once militantly revolutionary and spiritually mystical, the resulting Jamaican “hit parade” created a vibrant music culture that went on to influence popular music around the globe.

Bob Marley spread the infectious music far and wide, along with his peers Jimmy Cliff, Peter Tosh and Toots Hibbert. Countless others became Jamaican superstars including Gregory Isaacs and Dennis Brown. Reggae music pulsed throughout the world, flying its red, gold and green banner right up through the 80s, when production began to incorporate cheesy synthesizer sounds. Artists such as the UK’s Aswad and Maxi Priest embraced the 80s sound, and while some great music came out of this decade, the raw, analogue Jamaican studio sound began to lose its potency, and with it its following. Towards the end of the 80s, the sound of “dance hall” began to emerge from Jamaica’s studios. Studio musicians became less important in favour of programmers who could create drum loops and play everything themselves. The music became much simpler, but maintained the ever-important hypnotic quality of the roots reggae that came before it.

“Toasters” began to “chat” on the mic, who acted as MCs throughout the 70s. This style became all the rage as young “DJs” such as Supercat and Shabba Ranks flooded the airwaves into the 90s. Forward to 2020 where Sean Paul is king, still lending that Jamaican sound to pop artists like Rihanna and Cardi B.

It is worth mentioning that roots reggae music purists have managed to maintain the legacy of its predecessors through what is commonly known as “modern roots”. Throughout the 90s and 2000s many young Jamaican and non-Jamaican artists alike have been producing some good music, but much of it lacks the passion of its reggae roots.

Speaking as a reggae aficionado, I like it all. Late 80s dance hall will always hold a special place in my heart, and while much of it was ‘slack’, much more of it was ‘conscious’ music, with a positive message. Reggae has always been, and always will be, “message music”. I & I use it for inspiration, to keep on going through hardships; the trials and tribulations that we all endure. It is the human condition that we all share in common that makes us one race.

Being an artist has its challenges; believing in the value of creating to start; having the discipline to bring oneself to the practice room, for the sculptor to bring her iron to the fire, for the writer to bring his pen to the page. One must have the self-discipline to make oneself available to one’s muse, day after day: “Here…take me. Use me as your instrument. Inspire in me what you must.” An added layer of patience exists for artists who require other artists to create their art, to collaborate in a given medium. This would be true of filmmakers, dance troupes and actors, to name a few. For instance, solo musicians can simply play their instrument, just as many songwriters can play and or sing their songs. But then there are those of us who must rely on a group of committed musicians to faithfully execute the delivery of each composition, performance after performance; rehearsal after rehearsal. There is a delicate balance that must be found in the ‘selection’ of each contributing musician. A songwriter must be confident that each collaborator invited into the fold will contribute a complimentary musical quality that is unique to their respective experience; what each musician grew up listening to undoubtedly influences how they play and what their unique experience will bring to the table. It is a delicate dance of sensibilities. The artist, in this case songwriter, hopes that each carefully selected musician will bring their creativity while maintaining the ‘integrity’ of the song(s).

Indeed birds of a feather flock together. Like-minded musicians tend to find one another, and oftentimes, quick chemistry creates a bond. We create subtle disturbances in air pressure together, alternately creating harmonies and dissonance. It can be likened to an orgasm in the sense that two separate entities together create a third energy. Now imagine adding three and four other musicians into this delicate mix, or an orchestra.

It is about balance. It is also about having a vision. One must recognize how many musicians and precisely what instrumentation is required to execute the symphony that only lives in your head. Your fellow collaborators cannot hear the cacophony of sounds that exist simultaneously to create ‘the song’, as the songwriter ‘received’ it from the ether, or whatever muse. Ideally, the invited musicians must trust the songwriter’s ‘vision’ of or for the particular song. Meanwhile, the songwriter must have faith that the collaborators will execute that vision without changing it too much, thus making it sound like something other than it was when it was ‘received’. At the same time, the songwriter has invited trusted colleagues to add their respective technique, approach, subtle nuances, and ultimately feel to the ‘mix’. And so it is a dance, much like Love, wherein small sacrifices have to be negotiated because no matter how much you have in common, your lover is ultimately not you.

The next layer in this terrine is leadership. I believe the foremost role of true leadership is inspiration. Those being led must feel inspired to act accordingly or human nature will not willingly follow. In my estimation, effective leadership requires ‘loving backbone’; knowing when to be steadfast and when to acquiesce.

So first, a songwriter must carefully choose appropriate collaborators, much like the ingredients in an exquisite meal. But then, the songwriter must surrender control over the trusted musicians to add their particular dash of ‘flavours’ or ‘colours’ to the concoction. The steward must gently guide the ensemble with words and music and sometimes gestures to a place where its conspirators feel free to play with their emotions; where they also feel taken care of, in a protected space where they feel respected to focus and create, adding their respective feelings through various techniques.

I have been very fortunate over the course of my career. I have endeavoured to be a respectful and communicative leader. In large part I have managed to play with many brilliant and celebrated musicians through my willingness to take risks, by ‘putting myself out there’. In truth I believe that it is about Love. Love is about trust and requires vulnerability. We must be prepared to fail, to have our respective hearts broken, for things not to work out, and to look and/or feel out of our comfort zone from time to time. Indeed sometimes I’ve landed on my ass but I have always got back up and dusted myself off, just as Peter Tosh used to sing. I have had the great fortune to play with many incredible, skilled and talented musicians over the years, and I never stop being grateful, even amidst my awe. I have been truly blessed with opportunities of a lifetime to play music with these afore mentioned singers and players of instruments, and to be able to listen back to both studio and live performances captured ‘on tape’ for eternity.

I wrote this song some time around 2005. I had been playing regularly with the great Jamaican bass player Brian Atkinson who I found living in Halifax. We had convinced each other to “quit our day jobs” and drive down to Florida to reunite with Brian’s Studio One colleague, drummer Joe Isaacs from the Soul Vendors. Accompanied by trumpeter Matt Myer and trombonist Eric Landry, we spent a couple of weeks rehearsing a set of Studio One material in Miami before we flew to Jamaica to embark on a Soul Vendors reunion ‘tour’. Our debut New Year’s Eve gig was cancelled and things degenerated quickly after that. The horns pulled out and quickly flew back to Canada, leaving me to make the best of a sticky situation with Brian and Joe. I didn’t last long under uncertain conditions, what with rent due back home and my then girlfriend left holding the bag.

Upon my return the horn section was enthusiastic about reviving the Halfway Tree band back in Halifax. The only man for the job of filling Brian’s shoes was a young Alec Frith. An already accomplished bass player and reggae enthusiast, we spent significant hours studying the Halfway Tree repertoire together. We re-assembled the band with Alec leading the groove and pressed on.

Eventually, several months later, Brian returned to his home in Nova Scotia, understandably deflated. I however, was elated to have my great friend back and motioned for him to resume his post with the group. This did not go over well with the band. It didn’t seem fair to uproot Alec from his position. I did my best to act reasonably and respectfully but it was a difficult predicament that challenged my leadership.

Written from the heart at some dreadful point during this transition, “Pure Love In Your Heart” is certainly a reflection of much of what I have learned over the years:

Before the world came to know Bob Marley, the teenaged Robert Nesta Marley comprised one third of a singing trio called The Wailing Wailers. Alongside his Trenchtown neighbours Winston (McIn) Tosh and Neville Livingston aka “Bunny Wailer”, all three would go on to enjoy lucrative solo careers. Amongst what became Tosh’s impressive catalogue was a song called “Reggaemylitis” (1981), describing the infectious allure of reggae music. I caught the bug at the age of 13, the same year Marley died. I distinctly remember lying in bed, listening to the radio, when his passing was announced. I stayed up all night as they played his whole discography.

I had been learning to play the tenor saxophone in school and had developed a strong affinity for music. I especially loved classical music but was beginning to enjoy the sounds of “two-tone ska” emanating from the UK. I gravitated to the defiant spirit of this unique, up-tempo beat that resonated with teen angst. I watched Quadrophenia and began attending parties dressed as a “mod”, where local punks and skinheads comingled, discovering their sexuality and bashing one another in mosh pits around Toronto. The soundtrack began to include some Bob Marley and the Wailers tracks amidst the Madness, Bad Manners, Specials and Selecter; “the English Beat”.

I began to expand my horizons, as I jammed with a couple of high school friends, imitating the sounds of The Police and The Clash in a ‘band’ we called Oddio for a brief moment in time. Eventually I recruited some lads at Lawrence Park Collegiate to form my first reggae band “Souljah”, an awesome name for a reggae band to this day. We placed second at our first gig, a ‘battle of the bands’ at The Concert Hall, a former Masonic Temple on Yonge St., and our second gig had a huge line up to get in, since the owner of Branko’s couldn’t allow a throng of under-aged high school students into a licensed venue.

Before long I found a kindred spirit in young Jason “Casper” Wilson. He grew up in the multicultural neighbourhood at Keele and Sheppard, in the shadows of local reggae pioneers Rupert and Carl Harvey. Rupert founded iconic Canadian reggae band Messenjah while brother Carl would go on to lead Toots Hibbert’s band The Maytals. Jason found himself in good company for learning the craft. As Casper’s talent for music grew and flourished, Messenjah invited him to sit in for their keyboard player Hal “The Saint” Duggan aka Lazah Current, who was sitting in on bass for their charismatic front man Errol Blackwood. It was at this gig that Jason and I would meet and forge an important friendship.

We went on to form a pretty good little reggae outfit called Jericho, in which we switched back and forth from keyboards and harmony vocals to lead singer. Several of Jason’s early original compositions had a lasting impression on me, not the least of which was “Keep Trodding Along”. When I signed my first recording contract with independent Jamaican recording studio Kingston Muzik in 1996, I asked Jason’s permission to record this song.

When I arrived at Kingston Muzik from Toronto, the CEO welcomed me, asking which musicians I would like to work with, to which I cockily replied, “The Wailers”. I hadn’t imagined that Bob Marley’s bass player Aston Barrett would materialize to lift up Jason’s track (and six other tracks on the album) to earn a Juno nomination for “Best Reggae Recording” at the turn of the millennium! I love the mix on this recording; a collaborative effort between UK studio engineer Paul Hussey, myself, and Jamaican sound engineer Otto Lee-Wilson. This song still stands out to me as a quintessential reggae track, with its super cool intro that leads us to the encouraging message to “Keep Trodding Along”.

A major influence on my spiritual development was my friend Chris Hatton. We met early on in our respective music careers, converging at the point where reggae music began to inspire youths in ‘foreign’ to look to Rastafari for spiritual fulfillment. This magnetic young bass player took Rasta very seriously. I felt as though he took me to church and commanded reverence as he applied the same no-nonsense approach to both reggae music and the religion from which it was born. From his formative days as a bass player with a young band called Jah Youth, Chris went on to toast as “Friendlyman” with the progressive mixed-race Toronto-based band Culture Shock. “Friendly” went on to record a significant body of work, including perhaps his best-known track “Jah Rastafari”.

Coupled with our shared white cultural experience growing up in Toronto, we bonded over our love of Rasta music and all things Jamaican. I would show up at his studio apartment at Broadview and Danforth regularly, where we would smoke Jamaican ganja, read Bible passages and reason about Rastafari. When the time was right I invited Friendly to play bass with the original line-up of my backing band Halfway Tree, founded in 1995, where he led the music for a year and a half. Chris stands with the best amongst all of the reggae bass players I’ve had the pleasure to perform and/or record with.

Chris adopted the name DJ Friendlyness as he perfected his skills, spreading positive vibrations all over the city with his sound system Super Heavy Reggae. Friendlyness went on to assemble a top-ranking group of musicians that continue to carry the torch as Friendlyness and the Human Rights, featuring our mutual friend, colleague and mentor, all-star Jamaican keyboard player Bernie Pitters.

In 2010 I called upon Friendly to accompany me to Kingston on a last minute trip to record a new ska tune, somewhat ironically named “Rocksteady”. Recorded at legendary Harry J Studio in Kingston, this single takes us back to the golden era of Jamaican music. Featuring the original rocksteady drummer, Studio One pioneer, Soul Vendor Joe Isaacs, “Rocksteady” also features reggae Godfather Earl “Chinna” Smith on guitar. Soaring saxophones (courtesy of virtuoso Sean Weber), bubbling keyboards and playful harmonies paint a fun-filled soundscape for this celebratory testimonial, reminiscent of the days of doo-wop. The video is directed by my wonderful wife Jessica Marsh, and stars singer Katherine Langille on hula hoop!